


Shorts From The Vault

by TauntedOctopi



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Canon Disabled Character, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Late at Night, Loneliness, Multi, Night Terrors, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 07:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21490912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TauntedOctopi/pseuds/TauntedOctopi
Summary: A compilation of my Troy centric shorts from Tumblr. Also featuring Tyreen, Leda, and occasional other characters. Something for everyone in here.
Kudos: 7





	1. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troy reflects on his mother's passing, on her birthday.

It’s the same problem every year, without fail. Back home, he didn’t really have the means to do much except put flowers – the bright, weird kinds that she’d always loved – on her grave. Even that had become a corrupted place, eventually, Tyreen hiding their escape plans there so their dad would never find them. Troy missed their father, even though he had never really been of much importance to Typhon. It didn’t _matter _though, he was still their father. Sure, though, Troy had wanted to matter to him, but he had long made peace with the knowledge that Typhon didn’t give a damn. 

  


Their mother had been the precise opposite. Whereas Typhon had doted over Tyreen, no doubt fuelling her narcissism, Leda had loved her children equally. Troy had always thought his mother had always had just a little more time for him. Even though it was probably stupid, Troy still talked to her. He had a journal on his echo, triple password locked, full of letters to his mother. Of course he couldn’t send them, and she would never read them, but it helped, just a little. He had memos he could have sent to his father, too, but never did. He wasn’t sure Typhon cared enough to hear from him, and even if he did, Troy wasn’t sure his father would be too proud of what he and Tyreen were using their smarts and powers for. 

  


Taking her name had been his idea; Tyreen hadn’t wanted the link to their father, but hadn’t thought of an alternative, either. It had been a no-brainer for Troy. The enormous stylised _Calypso _tattoo across his torso had been the first addition once arriving on Pandora. The others and the piercings had come soon after. Troy wasn’t sure his mum would recognise him now, if he was honest. He liked to think she’d be proud of the cybernetic arm he had built himself. It had taken time, given he’d had to build it one-handed, but he was proud of it nonetheless. 

  


The latest addition to his collection of tattoos still stung in the morning air as he made his way through the cathedral. It had been placed on his wrist, amongst his siren tattoos. He had found, amongst her journal that he had taken from home, her name signed in her own hand. Neat print made it seem as though she had written on his arm herself. _Leda. _

  


Chances were he wouldn’t see Tyreen in the worship hall. If she even remotely cared about the significance of the day, she never showed it. Troy wasn’t sure his sister even remembered that it was their mother’s birthday. Tyreen had always been selfish, but with every passing day, she seemed more and more distant from who she had once been. Troy worried that one day there would be nothing of his sister left but the God Queen persona he had built for her. Right. Cause that didn’t make him feel guilty as hell or anything. 

  


As expected, the worship hall was empty. It was far too early in the day for any of the COV devotees to be packed into the room, lighting candles and leaving gifts at the statues of Troy and Tyreen respectively. Luckily, this meant he would have a little privacy for this ritual. Not like he would be against kicking people out, if needed, but that wouldn’t exactly endear him to his followers. 

  


Taking advantage of the emptiness, Troy made his way along the aisle between mismatched chairs and pews. People often fought over who got sitting space, but they could still pack at least three thousand people into the room, if needed. The more the better, in Tyreen’s opinion. It would have been uncomfortable. Troy could picture it as he strode towards his statue, picking up a handful of candles from the basket on the stage as he went. 

  


There was an altar between the statues, which mostly went unused. Their followers always seemed to pile offerings on specific statues, only using the altar on particularly important days, when offerings overflowed. Luckily, it served his purpose well enough. 

  


Yawning, Troy set out the candles, pulling the framed photograph of his mother out the deep pocket of his coat. He set it in front of the semi-circle of candles, placing two incense sticks either side. It wasn’t much, but it was nice to be able to give her some sort of tribute, even from so far away. 

  


He was glad he was alone; Troy hated the idea of anyone seeing any sort of weakness from him. With a lump in his throat, he lit the incense. 

  


“Miss you, mom,” he muttered to the photograph, plopping himself down in front of the altar. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, exactly. He just wanted to sit until the candles burned out. Maybe, if there was some afterlife, Leda would know that her son still cared, no matter what he had become. 


	2. Cello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Troy obtains a material possession with a connection to his childhood.

Cello - Troy short fic 

Once the money starts coming in, properly, in a steady flow, things start to improve. They can afford better recording equipment, better gear, designer clothes. All of these attribute to further popularity, further success. 

Tyreen buys herself a whole heap of clothes, the kind that are still what Troy calls "bandit chic", but definitely made from better materials. She insists on buying him a suit, too, which he allows because he knows that sponsors and deals will come in time, and he'll have to look the part. 

He's not entirely sure what his sister spends her money on. Weapons, clothes, expensive liquor, the kind of things they didn't have back home. He can't say he blames her. Whilst Tyreen is the more impulsive of the two, Troy conserves his share for things they may actually need - equipment, the latest editing and streaming software. 

The only purchase he makes impulsively, occurs entirely by accident. He's sitting in the editing suite, or what's slowly becoming the editing suite, taking a break from editing the latest skit they filmed to browse the echonet, when he sees an ad for it. 

The young man who had come from Nekrotofayo would never have been able to afford it; it would have been a pipe dream, something he would have had to exit out of looking at. 

His love of music had been hard, at first. With only one arm it was almost impossible to play anything. Since arriving on Pandora, building his arm, getting his cybernetics, it had been easier to pursue the interest. It was something Leda had left for her son, a talent for music and a good voice, when he felt like it. 

Although he jokingly beatboxed on stream for laughs, and occasionally spit out a half decent rap, Troy's real talent lay in actual instruments. 

The object in question, glaringly tempting on his screen, was a cello. His mother had had one, played it regularly when he was a small child. Even though he had only had one arm, Leda had taught him the correct way to play, while she used her own hands to play the correct strings. Now he had two hands of his own, the idea of playing again was sorely tempting. When Leda had died, their father had locked the cello away, along with most of her other possessions. No amount of pleading from Troy had convinced Typhon to relinquish it back to him. 

"You can't even play it without her." His father had said, almost scorning. 

Fuck it.   
With grim determination, he had hit purchase. 

The cello had arrived around a week later, neatly packed in a crate wrapped in straw and bubble wrap to protect it. Troy had furtively disappeared into his room with the crate, taken his sweet time unpacking it. The concept of owning something so expensive was... nice? He supposed he understood why Ty spent so much of her money on shopping now. Having come from nothing, to suddenly being able to buy anything they wanted? It was a good feeling. 

It took him a few tries to get both the cello and himself sitting comfortably. Last time he had played, he had been much younger and smaller, and had had a guiding hand. Still, it was surprisingly easy once he recalled the way Leda had taught him. 

It takes months before he can even remotely play anything decent. He spends all his spare time, where he isn't doing Twin God stuff or editing videos, studying tutorials on the Echonet. Eventually, he manages to get it right, the right pressure on the right strings with his mechanical hand, the right rhythm, and he can actually hold a damn tune. 

As time passes, he gets better and better. He can recall, from memory, songs Leda used to play, and finds tutorials for those. If he can't find one, he tries his best to copy it from memory. It's probably something he could make a decent living out of, if he were that way inclined. Unfortunately for him though, he's God King Troy, and gods don't play cellos. 

At least he still gets to rap on stream, and he's not exactly BAD at that, but when he's had a particularly shitty time, when drinking and shooting bandits and editing a particularly amusing video doesn't cut it for him, he ends up locking himself in his room and playing for hours. 

He's pretty sure Tyreen thinks he's playing video games, or doing drugs, or maybe she simply doesn't care enough to find out what he does in his spare time. Either way, the cello is the only thing keeping him sane, at times. 

As he finishes playing for the night on one such occasion, carefully puts it away in the special box he built, slides it under his bed, he sighs. He's not sure Leda would be proud of him for the whole "God King" act, but he's pretty sure she'd be proud of his music. He likes that he doesn't have to share that with a billion bandits. That there's still a part of him that's just Troy, the sick kid who used to play music with his mom. Music he remembers, still plays. He had been playing one of her songs just before. 

That's the important thing, Troy thinks as he flops backward onto his bed, that there's still a part of her connected to me. That was who the music was for, why it meant so much and soothed him. Not for the cult. Not for his persona. For the kid he had once been. A simple, weak child who had loved his mother. 

He sighed, glanced at the photo of him, Ty, and Leda that he kept next to his bed. 

"Night, mom." 

He drifted off with the echoes of an old lullaby in his mind.


End file.
